[ there's a leaf drawn on her locker door. she'd done it herself, as an easy marker amidst the scrawl. katniss scratches at the red paint with a thumbnail for a moment, smiling, thinking of sirius. but even with all the towels, the soggy underwear she wore into the pods, she still feels awkwardly naked. maybe even moreso than usual, since even after the terrible, tormented medical process, her changes haven't gone away. ]
[ she's hairless, for one thing. not just her body hair: that might have been okay, like the Capitol fashion for waxing and plucking off all her natural fuzz. but right now she's bald, too. no braid this month for katniss everdeen. instead of hair, her body has sprouted feathery skin growths, over her head and shoulders and distorted, bone-warped back. ]
[ some things are better: her talons have fallen out, and her skin stopped growing painfully into itself, and she can see again. but she still feels monstrous, emaciated and disfigured, sprouting mutations like the mutt peeta had thought she was. so it doesn't take her long to open her lovker, wanting clothes. ]
[ and clothes are what she gets. the wedding dress spills out onto the floor almost as soon as she opens the door, and she steps back from the waterfall of white material in horror. trying to stuff it hastily back into the locker just means she won't be able to get to anything she needs, so she pulls it out and tosses it aside, lets it crumple in a heap on the floor. there's a white rose tucked into the bodice, stem threaded through the ribbon, and for the first time since being spat out of the tube she feels bile clawing up her throat. ]
[ there's more. bread — which makes her think of sirius telling her what panem means. it's rue's bread, and she pushes those memories away. it's peeta's bread, too, because all bread makes her think of her baker boy. it's bread from home, and instead of being a grateful comfort it's just one more awful thing. ]
[ honestly, the liquor is a relief. it carries its own memories, of course: when she uncaps it the strong ethanol smell makes her think immediately of haymitch. there's only half a bottle, but she takes a shot, lets it burn her nose and throat, lets the tears be a reaction to the fire of it and nothing else. miserable, she takes another drink, forcing herself to swallow, face twisting in displeasure before she finally recaps it. ]
[ as if all those memories weren't enough, there at the back with her familiar boots and jumpsuit is her mockingjay uniform. the one cinna designed before he died, the one she wore in all those propos. and her handmade bow is a child's toy next to the weapon from district thirteen that she's been gifted with. if she has to fight, here, she'll need nothing more. ]
[ eventually she just puts on her tranquility jumpsuit. might now she doesn't feel like a goddess of the revolution: she feels like a broken bird, all skin and bones. she feels sick and worn down with sadness. she feels like a girl who lost too many people she cared for. numbly, she starts to separate out what she wants to take back to her room on the first floor, and what she's going to shut away in her locker, to ignore until the next jump. ]
katniss everdeen; ota
[ she's hairless, for one thing. not just her body hair: that might have been okay, like the Capitol fashion for waxing and plucking off all her natural fuzz. but right now she's bald, too. no braid this month for katniss everdeen. instead of hair, her body has sprouted feathery skin growths, over her head and shoulders and distorted, bone-warped back. ]
[ some things are better: her talons have fallen out, and her skin stopped growing painfully into itself, and she can see again. but she still feels monstrous, emaciated and disfigured, sprouting mutations like the mutt peeta had thought she was. so it doesn't take her long to open her lovker, wanting clothes. ]
[ and clothes are what she gets. the wedding dress spills out onto the floor almost as soon as she opens the door, and she steps back from the waterfall of white material in horror. trying to stuff it hastily back into the locker just means she won't be able to get to anything she needs, so she pulls it out and tosses it aside, lets it crumple in a heap on the floor. there's a white rose tucked into the bodice, stem threaded through the ribbon, and for the first time since being spat out of the tube she feels bile clawing up her throat. ]
[ there's more. bread — which makes her think of sirius telling her what panem means. it's rue's bread, and she pushes those memories away. it's peeta's bread, too, because all bread makes her think of her baker boy. it's bread from home, and instead of being a grateful comfort it's just one more awful thing. ]
[ honestly, the liquor is a relief. it carries its own memories, of course: when she uncaps it the strong ethanol smell makes her think immediately of haymitch. there's only half a bottle, but she takes a shot, lets it burn her nose and throat, lets the tears be a reaction to the fire of it and nothing else. miserable, she takes another drink, forcing herself to swallow, face twisting in displeasure before she finally recaps it. ]
[ as if all those memories weren't enough, there at the back with her familiar boots and jumpsuit is her mockingjay uniform. the one cinna designed before he died, the one she wore in all those propos. and her handmade bow is a child's toy next to the weapon from district thirteen that she's been gifted with. if she has to fight, here, she'll need nothing more. ]
[ eventually she just puts on her tranquility jumpsuit. might now she doesn't feel like a goddess of the revolution: she feels like a broken bird, all skin and bones. she feels sick and worn down with sadness. she feels like a girl who lost too many people she cared for. numbly, she starts to separate out what she wants to take back to her room on the first floor, and what she's going to shut away in her locker, to ignore until the next jump. ]